


obi-wan jerks it for a thousand words

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Embarrassment, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Obi-Wan is constantly getting tied up. He hates that he loves it.





	obi-wan jerks it for a thousand words

**Author's Note:**

> I’m only 2 seasons into Clone Wars and Obi-Wan has been tied up 3 times already. Coincidence?
> 
> No idea what to call the blue light rope from hondo’s court, or the yellow light cube from mandalorian factory. But those scenes sure did happen tho huh
> 
> also: i have tried to sit down and edit this like 3 times already. but every time i try i get so FLUSTERED that i give up and stop lmfao so sorry if some parts read awkwardly because it aint edited
> 
> for what it's worth, if i could actually go back and edit this, i'd want to add parts about how his shame ties back to the jedi code. the idea for this fic came from me thinking very deeply about how i headcanon obi-wan as celibate by choice and how he doesn't fuck because of the risk of forming attachments. i see him as being rly predisposed to forming loving attachments and i think he knows that too, which is why he never wants to run the risk of that by fucking. at the same time, i think he still has sexual tension to work out. but hes gotta do that without focusing on another person, and the easiest way to masturbate with nobody else particular in mind is with kinks or fetishes. that combined with every scene he gets tied up in --> the idea for this fic lol
> 
> i just think theres something delicious about coming to a conclusion about how to solve a problem from a place with pure intentions, and the landing on a solution that is so so depraved and filthy by nature.

The first time he touched himself, it was an accident. The seat of his speeder humming a little too enthusiastically, his hips nudging downwards into the motion before he was even conscious of what was happening. The blooming sensation of shame unfurling low in his belly when he noticed what his body was doing.

This, though— _this_ is no accident. Obi-Wan bites down a little harder on the knuckle that’s currently wedged between his teeth as his thumb fumbles over the head of his cock, the nail briefly scraping across the ridge. “Ah, kriff,” he hisses, gently running the pad of his finger over the tender spot. Even when it hurts, it feels so, so good.

His mind runs ahead of him, or, rather, behind, riffling through his memories. Those heavy metal shackles that bruised the bones of his wrist in the Geonosian arena, keeping his arms held above his head and his torso exposed. The sting of the ties that bound him in the pirate prison cells of Hondo Ohnaka, tugging at his ribs and cutting into his wrists every time his fellow captives moved. The _near_ _total_ immobility he faced in the Mandalorian moon factory, his body rendered completely helpless by hard light restrictors holding him still.

At the time, these episodes in his life had provoked nothing in him but an adrenaline rush and an unyielding determination to survive. He was more than used to the rush of battle, and his strict adherence to Jedi code required him to clear his mind and _focus_ on the task at hand.

Now, though… Now, there are no crises to overcome, no lives to save. Only the inexperienced grip of his own fingers tightening around his cock, and the alluring, infuriating ghosts of those restraints running up and down his body.

“Maker,” he whispers, eyes drifting closed as his mind wanders again. He slips his other hand down over his body, fingers dragging across his chest and below his sensitive stomach to gently hold his balls, his hips relaxing down into his grip. The skin moves with his hand, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine. He moves lower to press firmly into his perineum, letting out a choked sigh as he does. His teeth settle into his lip and he grunts, beginning to slowly pump himself. His robe lies open around him, baring his skin to the whisper of moonlight that bathes his room.

It’s too fast, with too much friction, and the feeling isn’t entirely pleasant. But, if he’s being honest, he likes it that way. He likes his own discomfort, he likes the edge that accompanies the pulses of pleasure that run up and down his body. He savors the roughness of his own callouses when they rub up against the soft and sensitive flesh of his cock, revels in the bite of a grip that’s just on the wrong—right?—side of too tight.

He wants to be gripped like that all over. He wants his body stretched out taut with ties. His useless arms tucked away behind his back with his legs spread wide, leaving him open and vulnerable and completely exposed. He wants to feel his his blindfolded face press down into a cold floor, his back arching and his ass pushed high, his hole on total display. He imagines his legs forced open by a spreader bar, the unwieldy position putting an uncomfortable strain on his knees and neck.

His fist starts to move faster and faster over his cock as his wandering thoughts coalesce more concretely into specific images. Lord, does it feel good. He grips himself too tight at the base of his dick as his other hand continues to jack himself off, imagining the sweet pinch of a cock ring. Maybe his calves are tied to his thighs, his legs hoisted up against the sides of his chest. His member standing stiff and dripping precum onto his stomach, unable to close his legs as his arousal and shame are laid bare for the world to see. Maybe his arms are tied above his head too. Blindfolded again, of course (he takes this opportunity to close his eyes), with a sizable gag wedged between his teeth. Prepped and ready for the taking, helpless to defend himself and, even worse, desperate for what’s to come.

That’s what it is. The physical part is enough on its own, but the desperation, the _shame_ —it shoots arousal straight through him, his body twitching with each wave of pleasure. What if people knew? What if they knew that _he_ , renowned Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, would take delight in such base and earthly pleasures? He almost gasps at the thought, his cock straining as real embarrassment sends color into his cheeks.

Proud and composed Obi-Wan, brought low by his own disgusting _fetish_. What would they say?

“Please,” he begs, to nobody in particular, as his fantasies overcome him. He can feel the orgasm coming before it happens, the pleasure absolutely cresting in his groin. He bites his lip too hard and the skin gives way as he finally reaches his climax. There is a heartbeat, then two, as the muscles in his abdomen clench and release, before he is coming, his cock pulsing out stream after stream of come, coating his hand and slicking his grip.

He works himself through his orgasm, his hips giving weak, aborted thrusts into his unrelenting grip. He lets himself moan quietly through it, the shame roaring in his ears when he hears himself. He is so weak and vulnerable in this moment, and he hates that he loves it.

And then it’s over—his body relaxing into the echoes of his orgasm, and his mind suddenly heavy with the urge to sleep. He sighs as he pulls his hands out of his sweat stained pants, the wet skin cold against midnight air. He wipes his palms against his leg, sagging further into his bed. He’s going to sleep _so well_ tonight. 


End file.
